The first Soviet soldier I set eyes on was an older man without a helmet, carrying a long rifle with a fixed bayonet over one shoulder. He had on a long coat and had a simple bag over his other shoulder. He was walking alone up the empty Siegfriedstrasse. White cloths were hung out everywhere. I waved with a white piece of cloth, he waved back without really paying me any attention. I went back into the factory yard and was on my way into the cellar. Then I saw two Russian soldiers in a corner of the yard burning the bristles off a pig with a soldering iron. They had obviously just slaughtered it. They had laid their machine pistols on the ground and were completely preoccupied with this pig. An absurd situation! As I went past they looked up, grinned and went back to working on their roast-to-be.

Shortly after me another Russian soldier came into the cellar, sat down on a chair, laid his machine pistol on his lap and demanded schnapps. But the others had already poured all the available alcohol down the drain on the correct assumption that that would be the first thing they would ask for. While I was outside the men had hidden most of the women in another room and pushed cupboards full of heavy metal parts in front of the door. A short time later the cellar was full of Russian soldiers coming and going. And then one arrived who waved his pistol around and ordered some of the men, including me, into a corner. We were standing in a circle around him, terrified. He pointed to a watch and shouted, “Uri, uri!” Those of us who still had watches handed them over; he took pocket watches, too. I didn't have one. He glared at me angrily but let me go when I turned out my empty pockets. In those first days in the conquest of Berlin, “Uri, uri” was followed by another demand: “Frau, komm!” (Woman, come!) Much has been written about the tragedies that those words entailed, not only for the women themselves but also for the men who were killed trying to intervene. Those were dreadful days.